The Deceased Wife's Sister, and My Beautiful Neighbour, v. 3

by William Clark Russell

I pretty well knew I had not been born with the detective faculty, and apprehended that my search would be defeated by clumsiness. Still I resolved to attempt it. My wife had several trunks ranged in my dressing-room, and one of those large boxes draped with chintz, called ottomans.

It was midnight before I retired to rest. I had other things to think of besides this search. The titles of my books, as they looked down from the shelves, had preached a solemn homily on the vanity of human wishes: and my own experience capped the moral by presenting me with a picture of the life I was leading, done in colours as sombre as fancy and reality could supply. When I got upstairs I found Geraldine asleep. I bent over her, and studied her features. The complexion was so white that the outline of her cheek was hardly perceptible upon the pillow. Her beauty had a pinched, worn air. All its calm and freshness were gone; her brow was knitted, her lip curled in a sneer; she lay quite still, breathing deeply. The general expression of her face was wretchedness. It was pitiful to witness such a look on lineaments so beautiful.

I took the candle with me into the dressing-room, and tried the lids of the boxes. They were open. That of the ottoman only was locked. I sought for her keys in the pockets of some dresses hanging in the wardrobe and found them in a green silk skirt. I turned the ottoman inside out, but found nothing. I applied myself to the trunks, but they were as barren of information as the ottoman. I closed the lid of the last trunk and was about passing from the room, when I heard the sound of a door opened. I listened, then pushed the dressing-room door, and looked out. The bed was empty, the door of the chamber open. I caught a light sound of feet, and stealing to the landing, perceived Geraldine descending the stairs.

I followed her. She gained the hall; I drew near. A lamp that was kept burning all night diffused a sufficient light. I looked at her face, and by the expression saw that she walked in her sleep.

I did not dare arouse her. I had read of the danger of awakening persons from such trances, and Dr. F—— had particularly cautioned me against doing so with my wife. I could do no more than follow her; and this I resolved to do to preserve her from harm. She walked steadily to the door leading to the back grounds, unbolted it, and passed out. The night air blew chill, for autumn was advanced and the approach of winter could be tasted in the night winds. The moon lay over the trees, slowly brightening, but shedding little light as yet. But the grounds and shadows were defined. She seemed sensible of the chill; for she crossed her hands upon her bosom and huddled her shoulders. She was habited only in her nightgown and her feet were naked. The dew was heavy; the gravelled walks sharp; yet I dared not wake her.

She passed down the lawn, got on to a side walk, and marched with slow but steady step towards the orchard. Soon she entered it. The shadows were deep, but the moonlight fell through the openings and faintly illuminated the obscurity. The grass stood knee deep. My feet crunched the dead leaves and snapped the rotten twigs. It was a portion of the grounds left untouched by the gardeners at my own request. The contrast between the trimmed gardens and the wild luxuriant orchard pleased me.

Sometimes the shadows and the intervening trunks of the trees made it difficult for me to follow her. I wondered whither she was leading me. How utterly still was the place! Her naked feet made no noise as she advanced. Her form flitted and floated before me in the gloom like a spectre. She wound her way in and out among the trees with precision, while I blundered forward, sometimes stumbling with my shoulder against a black trunk, sometimes kicking and nearly falling over long iron-hard roots.

Before long she gained the extremity of the orchard. The hedge that intersected her former house from the grounds rose thick and black. She stood motionless awhile, then knelt and began to scrape the earth with her hands, throwing the dried leaves furiously about her. Presently she desisted, rose, and went through a pantomime, the significance of which the gloom forbade me to interpret; but it appeared to me as though she struggled with some invisible object. She breathed heavily and chokingly, and sometimes faint cries escaped her. Then down she dropped on her knees again, and fell to sweeping back the leaves in the same violent way she had before scattered them. This done, she left the place, passing me so close that I had to shrink lest she should touch me.

She went towards the house fleetly. I had to walk quickly to keep up with her. At times she almost ran. As I feared she would shut the door upon me if I were behind, and so prevent me from entering, for the other doors and the windows were bolted and closed, I ran by her and stood in the passage until she entered. It happened as I expected. She closed the door at once and bolted it precisely as she had found it. I followed her upstairs, saw her get into bed and lie as motionless as when I had first bent over her.

I seated myself and watched her. I found nothing strange in her actions in the orchard. The mere fact of walking in her sleep was sufficient to render consistent any extraordinary behaviour. But I dreaded the consequence of her exposure to the night air. I could not doubt the wonderful providence that watched over the actions of the somnambulist; but supernatural as might be the regulation of her conduct, I knew that her flesh would still be susceptible of ill, and that there could be no provision made against the dangers of sickness and disease.